Poetry: The Anthem

They sing it from the mountain tops
They sing it from the valleys low
They sing from above the sky
They sing from the ground below
They sing it sitting by their windows
They sing it standing in their yards
They sing it in their run-down cars
They sing it by their game of cards

But what can it be that they all sing
That not a single person hears?
What can it be that they all know
Yet not a single one endears?
What is it that the billions voice
That falls on Silence's deaf ears?
And if you listened closer still
Would you hear it through their silent tears?

They hum it day to day to night
They hum it while they laugh and play
They hum it while their children learn
They hum it every single day
They hum it in their broken homes
They hum it to their broken lives
They hum it to the sounds of work
They hum it to the clang of knives

But what can it be that they all hum
That not a single person hears?
What can it be they they all want
Yet not a single one endears?
What is it that the billions hum
That falls cold on Misfortune's mind?
And if you listened closer still
Would you begin to hum in time?

Because what they hum and what they sing
Is only what they've always done
When the monumental truths of life
Burned their minds so far undone
Because what they sing and what they hum
Is the anthem of their bodies sore
Of their lives so filled with pain
It is the anthem of the poor